My first caucus

It does not fall to me to recount the contentious and convoluted history of the Washington state primary and caucus system; suffice to say that we have had both primaries and caucuses in this state, and at the moment we technically have both, but only the caucus counts.

So, we headed off to our caucus today, right across the street at the Vietnamese Presbyterian church. And let me tell you, the neighborhood was crawling with people, pouring forth from their homes and cars to converge on the overrun church and the overwhelmed Democratic party volunteers.

In the past, I have always scorned caucuses as elitist, making important decisions with just a tiny percentage of the voters. I realize it's pretty much the voters' fault for not showing up, but still: I chafe at the fact that 6% of the voters in the state of Iowa play such an inflated role in getting this party goin'.

But having attended one, I must say that I might just be a convert to the caucus. It positively hummed with civic spirit. Several precincts were caucusing here, and ours had no official chair, so the 42 of us who showed up just made do and figured it all out for ourselves. Scrunched onto the stage of the packed auditorium, we chose our temporary leader by acclamation, and strained to hear as he read our marching orders. Many of my neighbors made impassioned speeches on behalf of their candidate. We voted, discussed, and some of us changed our votes; then we tallied it up and elected delegates from among those who were present and willing. And that was that.

I'm sure there are more than 42 registered Democratic voters in our little precinct, so clearly, although the attendance today all across the state busted all precedent and expectation, it is not a model that would scale up well. But it felt like we owned it, just us regular folks of all races and ages, from the reciting of the Pledge of Allegiance to the day's adjournment.

Where to begin? Or, finding grace in anything

When last we left off, I had just had surgery to insert two metal pins in my left ring finger. The surgeon had, against his expectations, been able to save my wedding ring from the metal cutters. The furnace was broken, again, but the problem had finally been found and a repairman was scheduled for Saturday.

Then, things got interesting.

On Saturday morning, I was rear-ended by the hugest Ford abomination you've ever seen, causing three grand in damage to our car and probably herniating (sp?) a disc in my back. At least that's what the doctor said, after "You're here again?"

On Saturday afternoon, the furnace repair guy showed up with the wrong part, leaving us for two more days with no heat. We spent the weekend holed up in the bedroom with a space heater and a stack of movies, which after my initial meltdown and in spite of my back pain, turned out to be kind of fun. The furnace got fixed on Monday.

On Wednesday, I came home in the middle of the day to find that our house had been burglarized, and our dogs let loose in the process. The burglars came right up to my front door and busted it open with my two large dogs barking inside. That takes nerve.

Fortunately - and this is a longer story - the two men who are redeveloping the property across the street (the arson house, with Garry the Exceptional Oak) happened to come by before I'd gotten home, and they saw the busted door, recognized my dogs and let them back in, and called 911. They also went to great lengths trying to track me down by phone, via directory assistance and google. They even called my church.

The police came, the nice neighbors boarded up my front door, and the dogs are unharmed. The wedding ring miraculously salvaged by the surgeon last week? Stolen off my dresser this week. The house was trashed.

So, I have spent two weeks dealing with insurance claims (medical, auto, home), making up lists of stolen goods, and arranging for various repairs (to my body, car and house). It's pretty much been my full time job.

While we are unable to distill any meaning or lessons from our baffling run of bad luck, we are also very conscious that with one exception - the sudden death of a family member a few weeks ago - none of this rises to the level of the tragic, and in fact there are bits of grace to be found along the way. The new neighbors who helped me. The friend who dropped everything to come help me clean up our thoroughly ransacked house (thank you Megan!). The fact that the dogs stuck together, stayed safe, and came home quickly. The incredibly kind police officer, a dog person herself, who helped me check Nelly and Toby for any signs that they'd been kicked or otherwise injured.

There are some other odd and even funny stories in all this, which might provide fodder for weeks to come, or not depending on whether I want to rehash them. I will say that one of the most bizarre experiences was going to the local pawn shop to ask them to look out for my wedding ring, as well as two other rings that I inherited from beloved departed aunts. Never been in a pawn shop before. Some of the humor came from my friend Megan's reaction to what got stolen and what did not. "Look at all this great camping gear! This is a high-quality backpack, who wouldn't want this? You have great books, I totally would have taken these."

Yes, I'm sure they would've stolen our poetry collection if they'd just had a little more time.

Furnace broken, again

Our ongoing battle with our piece of $%^&* furnace continues. The repair men have until now been unable to diagnose its woes - though one particularly incompetent one gave us what turned out to be completely inaccurate information. The next visit was free, but by the time he got here the tricksy tricksy furnace was on its best behavior again, and no malfunction could be found. But THAT guy gave me the secret decoder ring for reading the morse-code-like error messages that the furnace emits. It communicates its distress signals in the form of a tiny, cleverly hidden, blinking red light. So THIS time, I can give them the secret code! Ha HA!

But first I must go to the hand doctor and have my surgical dressing removed. So much drama lately. The relentless work deadlines continue as well. I'm really look forward to my stint of R&R on jury duty.

Back to being a simple wino, thank god

Having weaned myself off the Vicodin yesterday so I could safely drive to work this morning, I am happily able to once again indulge in a little red wine in the evening. It's very satisfying indeed.

Yesterday I mentioned to one of my clients my lack of love for the Vicodin, and she replied "oh, I must confess I don't mind the occasional slight buzz!"

Neither do I, said I. I just prefer to get it from a nice glass of red.

Morphine derivatives have been known to make members of my immediate gene pool talk to the walls, fixate anxiously on their next dose, and invite the surgeon up to their hospital room for a nice buffet lunch. My family and the morphine family, we just don't mix. We're like the Hatfields and the McCoys.

Oddly enough, I adopted a dog with the same problem. I'm pretty certain we don't share any recent ancestors, and without complex language she can't really communicate her experience; but Nelly very clearly has some sort of psychotropic response to morphine compounds. It's the canine equivalent of talking to the walls - and the vet long ago marked her file with a big red sticker: Avoid morphine if possible.

Sometimes you need the big guns, and when Nelly was hit by a car and she was bleeding into her belly with a hole in her lungs and a gash on her head - they gave her the good stuff. Better to chat with your imaginary friends in a case like that if it means relief from pain. And so, I took the Vicodin briefly this week. But skittered away from it as quick as possible.

My titanium-reinforced digit, and other random updates

It took 30 hours for the localized numbing to wear off. 30 hours! Those are some impressive chemicals. As the numbing receded, there was pain. But not too bad, and there were painkillers.

The biggest annoyance is the feeling of being jabbed with a thumb tack right where the pins come out to my skin. I think it's just the bandages pressing against the tops of the pins, and I dearly hope that the sensation will go away when the bandages are removed tomorrow. Because - bleh.

In other news...

I do not have enough metal in my finger to set off the metal detectors at the airport. Apparently I asked the surgeon about this twice, while doped up on the happy chemicals. He didn't seem to mind the repetition. He seemed like a patient guy, for a surgeon.

I mastered the difficult and fatiguing task of showering one-handed, with a plastic bag taped on my bum hand. Again - I will be very happy to see these bandages go tomorrow.

I have procrastinated until the very last day on a variety of tax-related matters. I'm off to work outside the home for the first time today since the surgery, but when I get home tonight - the tax man must have his due.

Our Netflix queue just happened to spit out a disk of The Office and one of Arrested Development - two shows which, while very funny, include a lot of dislikable characters and eople making asses of themselves in ways that make me yell at the TV. "Nooooo, Michhael, stop talking now, why do you never learn??" I'll have to remember to mix up the queue portfolio a bit more in future.

Truly one-handed typing. While stoned.

I'd been thinking of this pins-in-the-finger surgery as a simple outpatient thing - which it was, and it wasn't.

The surgery itself was easier than I expected because my hand was 100% numb and I didn’t see anything. Plus he saved my wedding ring! I came home with some lovely x-ray art showing my two neat little pins:

But the initial recovery is harder than I expected. I figured the pain would be like after the original fracture, ‘cause they basically just refractured it, right? (Literally, my x-ray art shows that the crack has grown bigger). But the pain is worse - exacerbated by the area where they put the tourniquet, just above my wrist, which feels like it's been pounded upon with a meat tenderizer.

They numbed my hand in two ways: by putting on the tourniquet and injecting numbing drugs by IV, and also with some shots directly to the finger. These shots last an incredibly long time - I had total numbness, I mean total, for 12 hours. It's been 18 hours and I still don't have all the feeling back. And yet I feel pain, which is impressive and a little intimidating. So I am taking the Vicodin, oh yes I am.

My hand is also much more immobilized by bandaging than I expected. And of course whenever you put all those chemicals in your system, it feels like CRAP.

So I had been rather fixated on the procedure itself, which turned out to be relatively quick and painless, but was kinda in denial about the fact that it’s an assault on the body to drive metal into bone, no matter how small.

So, today I recover.

On pins and...pins

So, turns out I need to have little pins inserted in my finger to prevent it from healing in a bizarre scimitar-like shape. And I will probably have to sacrifice my wedding ring, unless they can force it off my bloated finger after they put my arm to sleep but before they insert the metal pins. Looking at the enormous purple sausage jutting out from my hand, that prospect seems so cringingly, painfully impossible that I almost prefer that that they skip the wrangling and go straight to the metal cutters - which is not to say I'm indifferent to my wedding ring. I really am quite fond of it.

Turns out the good surgeons like to add some anti-anxiety drugs to the IV mix, because people tend to get anxious when they are fully conscious and watching as their wedding ring is cut to bits and metal pins are drilled into their bones. Go figure.

I'm also advised that I will most definitely want to make use of that Vicotin prescription after this is done, because forcing your broken bone into position and then nailing it together with metal leaves a bit of an achy feeling behind. Little bit.

I'm flying to LA a couple of weeks after, so I guess I'll have to get one of those special letters for airport securing certifying that I really do have metal inside my body. So please don't strip-search me.

But hey - it's all ok. In most times and places on earth, someone in my situation would just splint the finger as best as possible, and would end up with a slightly deformed hand, and would adapt. It's a reflection of the luxury of my existence that I can go to a clinic that specializes exclusively in hands, and they can arrange it so my finger will (probably) heal good as new, and I have insurance that will mostly pay for it. Plus, we can afford to buy me a new wedding ring. It'll be romantic.

The little-read blog of 9-Fingered Flora

I know, I have been completely AWOL from the blogger scene. I'm sure the blogger scene has suffered greatly for it, too. I have been described by my parents as "the one that does not blog."

I haven't had much in the way of inspiration, what can I say? But here's something new and different that happened this week: My dog broke my finger.

Yes, that's right. It's a variant on the "dog ate my homework" excuse for being lame, a variant which can only be rolled out selectively, but hey, it comes with props! In the form of a shiny metal contraption, on your hand!

It was not her fault (yes, it was Nelly). It was an accident (no, she did not bite me - sheesh, several people have asked me that - Nelly has a lot of flaws but biting people has never been one of them). I was walking the beasts and we rounded a corner and encountered a dog up close suddenly, and Nelly was startled, and lunged (lunging at other dogs HAS always been one of her flaws). The leash must've been wrapped around my hand funny, and SNAP - I actually felt my ring finger break.

Of course it's a pain in the ass (I say, typing one-handed-ish), but in fact I am an old hand (no pun intended) at cracked extremities. Fingers, feet...at least this time it's my left hand. If only I'd thought to remove my wedding ring as coolly as I iced, splinted and called the doctor. With just a scosh more swelling, they'll have to cut my ring off.

Tomorrow I go to a specialist, who will tell me what kind of contraption I have to wear and for how long, on the blackened and twisted appendage that looks (and I quote) "like a hideous thing that crawled into a hole and died." Did you know that the three segments of your finger could actually take on a zig-zag shape? It's true!

Meanwhile I have lots and lots of work to do! So many people want our consulting services, and on the community organizing side of my work, regular citizens are turning out in droves, clamoring to change the world. It's busy but quite satisfying. I've been surfing the creative force of the universe, and one stinkin' broken finger isn't going to kill my buzz.

(And no, that is not a Vicotin buzz speaking. I have 'em, but I haven't taken a single one yet. Because I'm an extremity-breakin' bad-ass, that's why)

Well-trod trail

We are having some sad and stressful times in the Starkadder family, so instead of writing about all that I'll return to comfortable and happy territory: the dogs.

Nelly, who just turned 11, has decided that she does not want to go on walks in the morning. Or rather, she wants to go, but not until it is sufficiently light and dry out. For years Enrico has rousted himself at 6 am to feed the dogs, let them out, and then walk them. Lately, once the breakfast is done, Nelly bolts for the bedroom and jumps up on the bed next to me. She hunkers down and stares at Enrico, a black dog invisible in the darkened room except for her reflective eyes, clearly daring him to try to get her out the door.

This is remarkable not just because Nelly, like all dogs, loves walks. It is also remarkable because she has a complex set of largely self-imposed rules, one of which - nay, several of which - involve the etiquette of the humans' bed, otherwise known as Home Base. Dogs may only come up on Home Base upon invitation from the humans. Said invitations may only be accepted in the morning after breakfast, or during a daytime nap involving one human (but never two). Dogs may not spend the night on Home Base, except when one of the humans fails to come home for the night. Getting up onto Home Base in the evening before bedtime is forbidden when both humans are at home, even if a sincere invitation is extended. It's an abomination against the universe, and that's all there is to it. The fact that Toby is willing to break this taboo each and every evening does not change the absolute wrongness of it, and Nelly is confident she will be proven right on this score eventually.

Home Base also has magical protective properties. It is the only place Nelly will flip on her back and present her belly for rubbing. She's a proud and cautious dog, and Home Base is the one spot where she feels safe enough to make herself that vulnerable, even to us. It's the one place where she doesn't mind being packed together in close quarters, where Toby is allowed to snuggle up against her. There is no fighting on Home Base, not even so much as a warning growl. Home Base is the inner sanctum of the den, where the pack piles in together in a heap for warmth and comfort.

Thus it makes sense that Nelly takes refuge there from the unspeakable horrors of a pre-dawn walk in the Seattle drizzle. What's surprising is that she is letting herself up without an invitation, breaking one of the most basic rules. Once up, even the offer of freeze-dried liver will not pry her loose. "If she had clamps on her feet," Enrico said one morning, "she would engage them. She's not coming down."

So Enrico and Toby head off into the dark, dank morning now, and Nelly and I spend a little longer curled up together, content to wait for a more light before venturing out of the den.

The Mac makes me feel old

I am still liking the new Mac, but clearly it is made for young people. It's starting to annoy me that every time I open an application, the first thing I have to do is figure out how to INCREASE THE TYPE SIZE so my farsighted eyes can work without strain. Why is Apple so fond of tiny, tiny type?

In some applications this setting is easy to find and to change by default. Other applications bury it in obscure places, or offer no discernable way to change the default (I'm looking at you, Firefox). I have to adjust the text size Every. Single. Time., a constant reminder of the aged and decrepit state of my eyesight. My business partner Zena is a Mac gal, and I never understood why her Word and Excel documents would come to me with the Zoom set at 150% or 200%. That setting showed about 6 words' worth of text on my old PC screen, but turns out it's the bare minimum setting on the Mac.

Now broadcasting from the Apple Nation

Yes, we here at Miscellaneous Shellfish have finally made the switch from PC to Mac! An adorable little MacBook Pro which boots up in about 30 seconds instead of the 30 MINUTES required by our two-year-old PC. Literally, I would get up in the morning, turn the computer on, and head into the shower. Then I'd start up Outlook, and go make breakfast. If I forgot to turn it on before the shower, I would lose a full 30 minutes of billable time. Unbelievable.

The technology switcharoo partially explains the gap in blogging, what with the need to migrate data. Said migration was easier than I expected, although Intuit makes it really, really inexplicably unpleasant to migrate between the PC and Mac versions of its own Quicken software. I can't in any way blame Microsoft for that. And I rushed to install that Leopard OS upgrade before reading the fine print and learning that lots of things don't actually work with it yet. Like, my print drivers. And Adobe Acrobat. But, we are still well pleased with our purchase. (A special shout-out to the Miscellaneous Parents for the early Christmas generosity!)

In other news: I am relieved to know that the federal government will no longer demand that Amazon.com hand over records of its customers' used book purchases. Because my FBI file doesn't really need to include the fact that I've purchased The Genaology of the First Metis Nation, and sold Satre's Nausea in the original French. Clearly, I am a deeply subversive individual meriting further warrantless surveillance.

Back from the north, again

We had a fabulous trip to Winnipeg, with four generations of the family assembled. My cousin who's three years older than I just became a grandmother - a GRANDMOTHER - and my dad received an honor from his alma mater. My sister and I stayed at the grand old hotel downtown, and spent a couple of days at the spectacular Manitoba/Hudson's Bay Company archives. The nice archivist helped us find photos and maps and post diaries and all sorts of goodies. We even found a detailed survey map from 1870 showing the exact plots of land where our ancestors lived. We visited the old fort. We had many hearty laughs with our fun and witty relatives.

I might - might - have suggested, in a moment of tipsy and sentimental enthusiasm, that I could return for the Festival du Voyageur in February. February. In Winnipeg. The main attractions include sled-dog races on the frozen river and a jigging contest. Oh, and there's a 5-K run. And some kind of "Survivor" contest where teams compete to live for a few days in the fort and in teepees. Average temperatures in Winnipeg on these dates? A low of -5F high of +5F.

Sadly, I won't be attending the Festival this year, as I just accepted a consulting gig that involves a trip to southern California at that time. Another year, maybe.